


constant tender careful

by zenelly



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Blindfolds, Gags, Handcuffs, Implied spoilers, M/M, Riding Crops, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 06:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13828422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenelly/pseuds/zenelly
Summary: Akechi gets caught up in his own head sometimes. It's easiest, then, for Akira to help him let go.





	constant tender careful

**Author's Note:**

> Blame Kate and Elli for everything, but like, sometimes when things aren't great, you gotta write some BDSM.

You should know better than to be alone with him by now.

That’s what you tell yourself as you let him unbutton your clothes, as he sets them to the side, neatly folded. You should know better. Clearly, you don’t. Clearly, he doesn’t either, even though the times you have been alone have ended with him being dead at least once. You reach for him, mouth twisting at the memory, and-

It shouldn’t sting when Akira knocks your hands away.

It shouldn’t, but it does.

You reach for him again, mouth set in an unforgiving line, and when he deflects you again, gaze cool behind his useless glasses, you don’t stop your growl. “Akira.”

“Akechi.”

Once more, only this time, it’s more like you lunge for him. You want his mouth, his skin, under you. You want to bury yourself in his body and decay in there until you can be fodder for something _new_. He has no _right_ to deny you like this. Only Akira grabs you by the wrist and sweeps your legs out from under you, tipping you onto the floor of his room with a _thud_. You scramble, but.

His warmth is a physical presence behind you as he yanks your arm behind your back and grabs your other hand. When he speaks, his voice is low and almost amused. “Stay down, Akechi.”

“Make me,” you hiss, wrenching your arm free of his grasp only for Akira to grab your wrist again. Harder this time. Hard enough that you feel your bones grate and you have to drop your shoulder to lessen it even slightly. “Fucking _make-_ “

It isn’t that you don’t want it. You do; every part of your body strives to this one singular purpose. But at the same time, you don’t, because when it’s done, he’ll stop looking at you. They always do. Unless you’re like this, you have to beg and scrape for even the most casual attention. You have to manipulate it and you _don’t want to_.

But you turn too far and Akira, in a dizzying dash of motion, has cold metal cinched around your wrists before you can pull free again. You swear. They’re proper handcuffs, nothing but a few links between them, and he has them on tight. You’ll have to dislocate something to get free of them and that’s not even a sure bet.

“Don’t talk back like that,” Akira says mildly, a dagger of promise hidden in his voice.

You bare your teeth and open your mouth and-

You don’t even know where he pulled the gag from, not so soon after the handcuffs. Akira gives you no time to pull back, following your reflexive jerk away from the gag like he _expected_ it. It gets between your jaws and you try to spit it out only to be slammed forward against the ground, when you’re too off-balance to protect yourself. With your face shoved against the floor like this, it’s difficult to breathe. Between the floor and the ball in your mouth, keeping your teeth apart as Akira latches it into place behind your head and then just. Stays. Pressing you down. Holding you exactly where he wants you.

You can’t- fucking move. Getting out of the handcuffs is more work than it is worth it, and you can’t get a good angle on the escape anyway with Akira’s knee pressing like a promise between your shoulder blades. You can’t see anything. Your gasps come out in wet, heaving noises, too much for your nostrils but impossible to let out through your mouth.

You breathe out and out and out and finally, something in you relaxes, accepts the hand gripping the base of your neck for what it is, and tries to not sob with gratitude. Someone’s hand is on you. They have you. _He_ has you.

Akira, red gloves twined through your hair, has you.

And in that singular moment, the ravenous hunger that eats you from the inside quiets. Behind you, there’s a soft hum, a shift that presses you down further. You just. Let it happen. Go, boneless and accepting as long as he doesn’t take his hand away, and breathe as best you can, chest heaving and shuddering. Akira moves then, his other hand tracing down your spine.

You forget what it’s like to not be grateful.

“Akechi,” he murmurs. You can’t do more than flexing your fingers, not with the way they’re cuffed in the small of your back, but the motion is enough to let him know you’re listening. “Goro, what should I do with you?”

_Anything_ , you don’t say. You think that, perhaps, even without the gag in your mouth, you wouldn’t know what to say anyway.

“You’ve been a pain in my ass this whole time, you know.”

You feel a zing of pride for that misplaced though it may be, and somehow, always somehow, Akira notices. He chuckles just before you feel his breath ghost across your ear.

“You would be pleased to hear that, wouldn’t you? To know that you’ve been worrying me? I thought,” and here his voice roughens just a little, and he pulls you to sit back on your heels, to look at him, “I thought we lost you. You’re mine, Goro. You’re not supposed to sacrifice yourself like that.”

That, you don’t know how to answer. Akira doesn’t seem like he’s expecting anything, though. He smiles gently, his hair curling around his cheeks, before he moves around you, though placing exactly what you’re doing is difficult with his hand still at the back of your neck. Something round is pressed into the curve of your palm. You close your fingers around it without further urging from Akira.

“If you need to stop, drop this.”

And a blindfold is placed over your eyes. You hold carefully still as he ties it. The fabric is opaque enough that all you can see are a few pinpricks of light filtering through, a suggestion of what lies beyond, but nothing distinct. It makes you more aware that you can still hear Akira, that he’s near enough to smell, the distant scent of leather and coffee that permeates his clothes wafting around you.

At the first touch of something silky, smooth, across your neck, you jerk, uncertain. Akira has you still though, with a gentle murmur and gentler touch, his gloves smoothing down your chest, chasing the cool, unfamiliar sensation. You breathe carefully, shallowly, cautious of the increasingly tight bonds Akira is placing on you.

“Easy, Goro,” he says. “If it gets to be too much, let me know, alright? You still have the ball, right?”

You tighten your grip around it to be sure. Nod.

He touches your cheek before returning to the knots, his movements quick and distracting as he layers the rope across you. You are so aware of your own breathing, feeling the way your chest presses into the ropes, how you can’t escape its constant constraint.

“You need to understand that I will give you what you ask for, but you have to _ask_ for it. I can’t give you what I don’t know you want,” and you strain for his voice, flinching just slightly as he loops the ropes between your legs. Everywhere they touch is highlighted, a map, a frame, and you suck in a gasp at the thought of you being put on display.

Akira’s hands still after a knot. Your torso is covered in intersecting lines of rope, and while the feeling is strange, it is not unwelcome. He strokes the underside of your jaw. There is a pointed pause, where he waits to see if this, too, is something you can accept.

The ball remains in your hands, and Akira lets out a pleased sigh.

He leaves you for a moment, blind and mute and bound in the middle of an empty world. There’s sounds of him sitting down, then his touch returns. He guides your head to his thigh, and you go easily. He is warm under your cheek. The way he keeps touching you, brushing your hair and neck and shoulders, grounds you right there. Right where he wants you. Every breath you take is a reminder of him. Your nose is filled with his scent, your lungs bound by the ropes he laid on you.

Shifting, you make a curious noise. Akria pets your hair.

“Just relax and let me put you where I want you to go, Goro. You’re doing everything right so far.”

And thus reassured, falling into it is like falling asleep. Behind the blindfold, you close your eyes and drift, shifting when your knees hurt from kneeling, when your shoulder aches from the angle your wrists force it into. Akira always accommodates these shifts, helping where he can to alleviate the stress of your position, and just lets you go. His gloved hand is against you always. In your hair, tracing lines you can’t see into your skin.

You lose track of how long you’re there, but a restless energy fills you the longer you wait. There has to be something more to this. Akira moving comes as a surprise when it finally happens, a gentle double-tap against your chin to get you to lift it as he stands.

“That was very good, Goro. Now, are you ready? You were bad before, and you didn’t tell me what you wanted, and those who misbehave need to face consequences. ”

To be truthful, you don’t know what he’s talking about when he says you did well. All you did was sit and let him pet you and feel the fabric of his pants beneath your skin. You didn’t _do_ anything. The offer of a consequence, of _punishment_ that you can taste along the back of your tongue, is what you latch onto. This, you understand.

Akira pulls you up, holding you as your legs wobble.

“Still have the ball?”

You nod.

“Know what to do if you want to stop?”

You mime dropping it with the hand not actively holding the ball, and Akira huffs a small breath of laughter. “Good.”

He directs you then with a gentle hand until you reach a bed where you sit, legs dangling over the sides. Your knees ache, but it’s a secondary thought to the pressure of the ropes on your skin, the gag in your mouth that you’re still trying to swallow around. The hand in your hair. The trailing touch of-

Wait that one’s new.

The cool brush of leather skates across your thighs, and you hold yourself carefully still.

Consequences.

( _Punishment_ , your mind whispers, grateful and dizzy with it.)

The first strike comes as a surprise. A quick, warming slap to the top of one of your thighs that’s over before you know it, even if you can’t stop the noise that it coaxes out of you. Just a muffled gasp, but it’s more than enough for Akira, it seems.

Again.

And again.

Gathering now in speed and intensity as Akira hits you harder and harder, switching between thighs. First your right. Then your left. He doesn’t linger on any one place in particular, varying hits from your outer thighs to your inner, from your knees to your hips. It doesn’t. Fucking stop. The pain catches your focus, narrowing your world down to the glowing patches of skin where you can feel your blood strongest. Every pulse is a new awareness. Another reminder.

You hurt and you ache with it, the sting and burn of the crop ameliorating into a warmth that sinks into your skin. Your thighs are warm, near to burning, from the strikes, welted impacts layered on top of each other, and even the brush of air across them is too much, the skin too sensitive for anything at all. A whisper of motion, and Akira drags his hand down your thigh; it soothes the burn for a second before reigniting it, only hotter, more unbearable.

The noise you make around the obstruction in your mouth is many-toned and desperate.

“Is this what you need?”

You nod, noticing for the first time that your blindfold is wet with unshed tears, that you are shaking, even as Akira’s hand ghosts back up your leg, the seams of his glove catching on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. As he cups your cock, your own hardness startles you.

When-?

“I thought so,” he murmurs, and his hand pumps you. You turn your head from him, heat flooding your body.

Akira presses you back. You spread your knees without thought, without question, without consideration for the ache in them, the heat that still courses through every inch of impacted skin. Laying on your arms like this isn’t comfortable, but that only adds to it. You’re not here to be comfortable. You’re here to be punished.

(You’re here to face justice.)

Akira doesn’t stop touching you. He doesn’t chide you when you shakily thrust up into his grasp. You’re allowed to chase his motions, helpless to his call the way you have been since the moment you met. You wanted it to be him, you wanted _everything_ to be him. Even when your ambition pushed you further, you wanted Akira to go against you, to be the firm ground you push against, and instead now, he is the fire that consumes you as pleasure coils in your belly.

“You’re being so good for me, Goro,” Akira whispers.

The restless shifting of your hips stills. You can feel yourself quivering, from your spread ankles and knees to the tips of your clenched hands to the steadying press of your shoulders. Good? You? Good, when you can’t even stop trembling?

Akira smooths his hand down your flank, lingering nowhere but indulgent nonetheless. “Look at you. Done up like this; like you’re some kind of treat. Like you’re all for me. And you’ve been behaving so well this entire time. A good boy.”

Tears sting at your eyes and you blink desperately behind your blindfold. You cling to those words. A good boy.

“My good boy,” he says with his mouth at your throat right before he bites down and closes his fingers tight around you, and you cry out around the gag as pleasure and absolution blaze through you. _His_. And isn’t that all you’ve really wanted to be? Someone’s? Akira soothes you through it, through the heaving sobs that you don’t know how to stop, his hands deft and quick and always there against your skin. Warm. Warm. Warm.

When you come back to yourself, you are free, your jaw aching from being held open so long, your lashes damp. Your legs ache still. You think they’ll be aching for a while now. Your head is in Akira’s lap again, his fingers carding through your hair, and when you make a quiet noise, turning your face up to him, he leans down and kisses you.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod. Then, voice cracking, “Though I must say, kneeling like that for so long wasn’t exactly what I would have called fun.”

“You needed the time to settle.” Akira kisses you again, lips soft. “I needed you to relax before I could keep going. Now, though, I think it’s time for a nap. Yeah?”

You don’t argue that much. Not with the way he’s still touching you. You murmur your acquiescence, letting Akira tuck you in and curl up behind you. You are wanted somewhere where you can feel the weight of his arm, constant, across your waist, his lips, tender, against your neck, your heart, careful, in his hands.

You are wanted.


End file.
